Spinning Between Constellations & Dreams
by WeatherWatch
Summary: A one-shot collective featuring uncommon pairings, because, in the end, Hogwarts is only so big.
1. AdrianLuna

**Oh dear, another multi-chap…and I still haven't finished the other ones… One day, I swear, Anarchy will be finished. As will Mirror Image.**

**Disclaimer: I have no claim to any of the characters here; all credit goes where credit is due – JK Rowling. However, I have exercised them to ensure they don't become indolent. That is to say, many characters are going to spontaneously meet up with other characters because, after all, Hogwarts is a castle full of children and teachers, there's bound to be some interesting conversations and unexpected meetings.**

"**Spinning Between Constellations & Dreams"**  
- In and out of the crowd like a glance -  
_(So She Dances, Josh Groban)_**  
I  
Adrian Pucey/Luna Lovegood  
**-:-

The hallways of Hogwarts were dark even during the midmorning when a warm light had encompassed the rest of the grounds. Stained glass windows painted eerie colours along the stone corridors as Luna Lovegood skipped along them, merrily making her way to the fourth floor. Her feet were bare and her steps silent – her shoes misplaced by one of her Housemates earlier in the week – but she was carefree, enjoying the feel of smooth stone beneath her toes.

The ethereal first year slowed to a halt in front of a large portrait with an elaborate gold frame which hung opposite an open archway, entry to it barred by a wrought iron trellis.

"Hello," she said dreamily, and sat down in front of it, tucking her legs beneath her dress.

The occupant of the portrait smiled from her perch on the grassy knoll, running slender fingers through wispy blonde hair carefully so as not to knock her coronet of daisies, and replied: "Good morning, Miss Luna. How do you fare today?"

"Well enough, though I think the Nargles must be breeding heavily at the moment because a sixth year mislaid my red shoes."

Witch and painting spoke quietly, sharing stories for an hour or so, until careful footsteps echoed down the hall and brought their conversation to a close.

A figure appeared behind Luna, stepping through the archway – the staircases must have changed their routes at some point during the conversation. A seventh year Slytherin, bright blue eyes showing through the fringe of dark brown hair, gazed down at her and then glanced curiously at the portrait. His brow furrowed.

"What does a first year accomplish that earns a portrait among the Hogwarts frames?" he asked slowly, his voice confident and smooth as it carried the question.

Luna smiled her vacant smile. "It's not me. Not really. Elvira is a Changeling."

As if in response, the portrait morphed to depict the Slytherin, standing in robes identical to the casual ones he currently sported.

"Impressive," he murmured, reaching out a hand to gently caress the paintwork. He added more loudly: "I never knew that such talents could be caught in Wizarding portraiture."

"Most people don't know because they don't bother to find out," Luna told him frankly as the image changed back to her own doppelganger in a pretty white dress with yellow ribbons tied around her waist. "Photography has made the art redundant."

The boy, who tiptoed along the cusp of adulthood himself, was astounded. This child – a little witchling – was so perceptive; eleven years old and more in tune with the world and the people in it than most of the students in Seventh year, he thought privately.

"How does an eleven year old become so observant?" the Slytherin wondered aloud.

"I'm a Ravenclaw." Luna's tone was honest. "But I'm also very small, and quiet, and people don't seem to bother lowering their voices around me. I've heard a lot of things that way; sometimes things about me, sometimes about other people."

The boy's gaze was turned sharply upon her, but she was content to leave it at that, either blissfully unaware of any misdemeanours acted out by others, or unbothered by their opinions.

"Elvira likes to change into me because of my hair," she continued. "She says it's soft and nice to brush – much better than some of the other students she's met. Once, I came by and she changed into Dumbledore, only he was very young because she says his beard tickles her face otherwise."

When she paused to take a breath, the Slytherin took the opportunity to speak. "What do they call you, little Raven?"

The little blonde looked up, directly into his eyes, and the older student had the unnerving feeling that she was looking into his mind rather than his face.

"My name is Luna."

She tilted her head innocently, hair falling from its flimsy constraints, and he smiled handsomely at her, dropping his chin in a careful nod of amity.

"Adrian Pucey."

"It's nice to meet you," she said politely from her seat on the stone floor. "I've seen you at dinner sometimes. You're kinder than the younger Slytherins. Especially the second years; sometimes I wonder if they've been scratched by adolescent griphals, they're so often unfriendly and hurtful to the students of other Houses."

She stood up in a surprisingly fluid movement, exposing her bare feet. The Slytherin felt a strange twinge when he saw their state of uncover.

"Luna, where are your shoes?" Adrian questioned softly.

"Hmm? Oh, one of the older Ravenclaws mislaid them," she explained distractedly.

His face hardened, and for a moment it looked as if Adrian was going to say something rude, but he calmed himself and contented himself with an unemotional 'Ah'.

"Nargles can be so hard to guard against," Luna said by way of explanation.

Adrian masked his expression of bewilderment.

"They infest the brain and make one forgetful," Luna went on to inform him seriously. She looked at a strange contraption strapped to her wrist; it could be a watch, if you strained your imagination to the limits. "Oh, I should probably be on my way. I'm supposed to meet Professor Flitwick soon."

Adrian nodded dumbly. What a curious creature; little Luna the Ravenclaw, with her head in the clouds, and a heart of gold. It was refreshing; neither were very common traits in Slytherin House. It wasn't conducive to a successful school career.

"Maybe we'll see each other in the hallways," Luna theorised in her quiet voice. "But you don't have to say hello if you don't want to. Most people are very distracted in the halls, I've noticed."

The suspicions Adrian had felt when she'd explained her missing shoes became more solidified.

"I'm not most people, Luna," he responded firmly.

She looked at him with her large blue eyes, head tilted characteristically to the side. "No, I don't think you are." Astuteness floated across her irises.

After several seconds of silent appraisal, she moved to the staircase. And just before she began the climb down to Flitwick's office, Adrian called out to her: "I hope your shoes turn up soon."

"Oh, they will," she answered optimistically. And with that she skipped away, leaving only the fading echoes of their conversation.

"They will," repeated Adrian under his breath, with only the stone walls of Hogwarts and Elvira the Changeling to hear him. The latter broke into a gentle, knowing smile.

The following morning, though there was an obvious berth around the little blonde Ravenclaw at their House table, Luna's feet were encased in a pair of bright red shoes with silver laces, smiling in her vague manner, humming quite happily to herself.

Adrian's gaze moved to settle directly on a sixth year (specifically the one that had 'misplaced' Luna's shoes after 'borrowing' them without permission). He smiled malevolently, offering a curt nod as he saluted her with his goblet of pumpkin juice. The Ravenclaw blushed profusely in embarrassment and looked determinedly down at her plate.

Luna wouldn't be bothered for a while. He'd made sure of that.

She was a very special kind of innocent in a sceptical, unfriendly world; he'd do his best to keep an eye out for her. At that moment, the unique first year turned to smile beatifically at him; Adrian's expression softened immediately.

He smiled back.

**End.**

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	2. HermioneWayne

**I think I quite like the way this collection is going. There's a lot of wiggle room, and a lot of between-the-lines opportunities. I hope you enjoy it.**

"**Spinning Between Constellations & Dreams"**  
- In and out of the crowd like a glance -  
_(So She Dances, Josh Groban)_**  
II  
Hermione Granger/Wayne Hopkins  
**-:-

"I figured out how you're doing it," a voice, low so as not to draw Madam Pince's attention, commented casually to Hermione from somewhere over her left shoulder.

She started violently. Third year required her to take her studies even more seriously than the last two years – after all, OWLs were only two years away, and many of the subjects in her overwhelming workload were electives – so when she was researching (especially at one of the back tables, hidden on the other side of the stacks) other people took rather a secondary place in her mind.

The boy stifled a snigger.

"Do you mind!" she scolded, keeping her voice to sharp hiss. "Some of us are _trying_ to _study_."

He grinned, ignoring her words completely.

"I figured it out," he repeated in a proud whisper. "How you keep attending classes that are on at the same time."

Her brain made a subconscious decision to hold her breath while she waited for him to say it; to say she was a cheater, misusing a ministry Time-Turner to boost her marks, something – anything – that would make her look bad-

But it never came.

He was still smiling at her. And for someone used to scowls and eye-rolls, it made a nice change. Even Harry and Ron tended to think of her as a glorified encyclopaedia (albeit one that occasionally helped them with their homework and alternately saved each of their scrawny arses when they got themselves into trouble), so there followed a fleeting moment where Hermione thought 'maybe he doesn't know exactly what my means of parallel attendance is'.

She relaxed her quill, deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"So," she began, racking her brain for his last name. He was a Hufflepuff, of that she was fairly certain. "Hopkins?" she hazarded. "What is it you think I'm doing?"

"That's a secret, that is, _Granger_," he replied glibly (she mustn't have been fast enough to recall his name. Fiddlesticks!). He walked around her to pull out the chair opposite, making himself comfortable. "Don't you know the rules? And besides, wouldn't you rather know the 'how' first?"

It was as if he were aiming for a title: Hermione Granger's Most Irritating Year-mate. Of course, he'd have some competition from Malfoy, and Parkinson, too, for sure.

She glared at him.

"Fine, fine," he grinned crookedly, resting his chin on clasped hands. He said conspiratorially: "I think you've got a little golden trinket that plays with Time."

He gestured to her chest with his chin, indicating the object at the end of a fine gold chain that hung beneath her blouse. "You've got a Time-Turner."

Shaking curly blond brown hair from his face, he watched as Hermione froze. Several emotions flitted across her face before she gazed imploringly over at him, a look of tremendous panic on her face.

"Please, don't tell anyone," she begged, "I'm allowed to have it; McGonagall vouched for me at the Ministry so I could get one to attend all my classes this year – and I swear I only use it for getting to class – but nobody is supposed to know about it. They'll take it back and I won't be able to study Arithmancy and Care of Magical Creatures or Ancient Runes."

"Hey; hey," Wayne soothed, leaning forward. He'd forgotten how much she thrived on academia. "I'm not going to tell anyone."

"But… but aren't you going to complain to Professor Sprout, or, or," she faltered, fingering the chain nervously. "Make me give it back?"

Wayne looked bewildered. "Why would I do that?"

"Because it gives me twenty-seven hour days!"

"And that makes me want to do it, why?"

"I have three more hours than any of the other students," Hermione explained, stricken, as if the answer were obvious. "That gives me extra time to do assignments and study for tests. It's an advantage over my classmates – over you!"

"You spend them all in class!" Wayne argued, adding jokingly: "If you spent them retaking tests, then I might have a problem."

Hermione looked utterly shocked at the thought, and Wayne shook his head with a laugh.

"Don't worry about it, Granger. I just wanted to let you know I worked it out – prove that a Hufflepuff could make an educated guess. That's all."

He leaned back in the chair and watched this sink in.

"Thank you," Hermione said shyly after a moment's silence, smiling at him over the neat book piles she'd arranged at her research table. He grinned, threw a mock salute at her, and slipped away, back towards the open section of library and, in all likelihood, towards the exit.

"It's always the quiet ones…" she said vaguely to herself with a quaint little smile, refocusing on her study with startling alacrity, filing away the knowledge that Hopkins was both friendly and _very_ observant. You never know when you might need that sort of information.

**End.**

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	3. SusanMarcus

"**Spinning Between Constellations & Dreams"**  
- In and out of the crowd like a glance -  
_(So She Dances, Josh Groban)_**  
III  
Susan Bones/Marcus Flint  
**-:-

A dirty blonde head poked out into the empty corridor, looking around for a familiar feature. There was a quiet huff, and then a muffled yet frustrated growl.

Susan Bones was thirteen years old. She'd attended Hogwarts for two whole years and she _still_ couldn't manage the route from the Sett to her Ancient Runes classroom. Of course, Runes was a new subject, an elective, so she hadn't spent a lot of time in first and second year traversing between the two locations, but that was beside the point. Anyway, she was sure the staircases rearranged themselves every time she reached the third floor, because it seemed t o be different each time.

She tugged absently on a blonde plait and considered her next move, a wave of patience rolling over her as she realised that a fashionably late entrance was now impossible and she might as well take her time, she was late enough as it was, a few minutes wouldn't make a difference.

"Looks like a wee bumblebee's lost its way," a deep voice rumbled. It had a grunt-like quality, despite being a full, multi-syllable sentence. Susan glanced up at the newcomer with wide eyes, his green trimmed robes were all the recognition she needed for a little trickle of fear to begin its ascent up her spine.

The Slytherin was big – hulking was probably a better term, really – and he had a mean looking face with teeth that looked as if they wanted to escape his mouth. Dark eyebrows sat heavily over dark blue-green eyes, and muscles strained beneath his white school-shirt. Apparently he'd decided the traditional black school robes weren't for him; tellingly, nobody had taken it upon themselves to enforce uniform rules. He should've left school the previous year, but for a reason that no one was game enough to voice, he'd had to return.

Frankly, Susan observed quite correctly, only somebody who'd spent their entire school life with their head under a rock wouldn't have registered who he was: Marcus Flint – Slytherin Quidditch Captain.

There were about three seconds where Susan adopted the normal reaction of terrified prey everywhere; she stiffened in fear, her whole body seizing up as if she were petrified, and then, when human emotions finally decided to join in, felt tears well up in her blue eyes and let them cascade down her pale cheeks, aware of the pitiful sounds escaping from her throat.

Flint looked discomfited. People may have suspected Trollish genetics somewhere in his family tree, but he was still man enough to find himself at complete unease in front of a crying girl – a sensation suffered by men the world over in the face of weepy women (who, incidentally, knew it was their best trump card and knew at exactly which points in time to employ it).

Awkward silence, punctuated by Susan's pathetic sniffles, settled over the corridor as Flint stared uncomfortably at the young Hufflepuff, probably pondering whether he should run like heck or try to comfort her.

"Sorry," he grunted eventually, managing to sound both gruff and genuinely repentant. It startled Susan right out of her abject sniffling.

"I- erm…it's alright," Susan said meekly, somewhat distracted by the fact that he wasn't teasing her mercilessly. She'd heard things about this particular Slytherin. (Unfortunately, the gossip circles of Hogwarts had a tendency to exaggerate, especially when it came to Slytherins – it had to fit the history of the House, you know – but Susan wasn't to know that yet, she was only thirteen, after all). "I am though. Lost, that is."

Flint grunted. He looked more relaxed now that she'd stopped crying.

"Do you, erm, could you?" she faltered. She took a deep breath and stood up straighter. "Could you, please, help me find the Runic Corridor?" She looked down at the floor again, unable to stare the huge wizard in the eye for too long. "Please," she added.

He was surprised. She'd actually asked him for help. Normally, they'd have run away by now, but she was – well, had been – looking at him with big, blue doe eyes and considering the fact that he'd just made her cry – sure, he'd said sorry, but he was the scariest person in the whole school – he was impressed. It wasn't as if there was much of her; just a slip of a girl with blonde plaits and china blue eyes, like a doll.

The awkward silence hovered threateningly and in its shadow, much to his own shock, Flint said: "Yes."

Two pairs of eyes widened.

"Thank you," she murmured after a moment's stunned silence, clasping her hands in front of her and worrying her lip as she waited nervously for him to act on his agreement.

"This is the wrong floor. You need to be on the fifth, not the third," he told her gruffly. "And the staircases change at lunch."

Susan scowled. "I knew it," she grumbled, mostly to herself. "I thought they looked different to last time."

"Come," Flint grunted, heading back to the direction from which he'd originally approached. "I'll take you to the right corridor."

Susan hurried to keep up. Marcus Flint was helping her - and she'd do her absolute best not to annoy him during this unusual act of kindness.

**End.**

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	4. OliverDaphne

**I won't lie, I enjoyed this one a lot... But I'm not sure I nailed Daphne as closely as I'd like. Snarky, quick-witted dialogue doesn't always come easily to me. Let me know what you think. I hope you enjoy it regardless.**

"**Spinning Between Constellations & Dreams"**  
- In and out of the crowd like a glance -  
_(So She Dances, Josh Groban)_**  
IV  
Daphne Greengrass/Oliver Wood  
**-:-

Oh, for the love of Merlin.

She'd _seen_ him go in, and that was almost an hour ago.

Daphne had watched, unnoticed in the stands, as the Quidditch players left by twos and threes, disappearing up to the castle enshrouded in animated conversations of the game, but one – _naturally it was the one she specifically wanted to talk to_ – still remained in the change rooms. She frowned, counted to ten to compose herself wholly, and then slipped inside, shutting the door carefully behind her.

It might have been awkward, but awkwardness was something that happened to other people. Daphne Greengrass didn't do awkward. She didn't do shame or modesty, either, so it was without a flicker of hesitation that she made her way towards the showers and the unsuspecting Oliver Wood.

A sound usually heard only from heavily pregnant women and camels echoed obnoxiously through the tiled building, followed by a series of dull, rhythmic thuds. Daphne's eyes cruised heavenward.

The steam from the single running shower had weaved and curled to fill the whole room, wrapping itself like a blanket around anyone and anything it could reach. The despondent silhouette of Wood's head was just visible from the doorway, resting against the tiles as water jetted down onto his burly shoulders. A purple bruise was blossoming on his right shoulder, but Daphne didn't have time to register that on any relevant level.

"What the hell are you doing, Wood?"

Poor Wood let out a startled yell, spinning around and grabbing a wash towel in an effort to keep his modesty, all in one smooth motion. But Daphne wasn't interested in comparing parts so she ignored it with her conscious mind, letting her subconscious file away the planes of his body and the particularly delicious grooves at his hips. Her face gave away nothing; her mind was focused on one thing and one thing only.

"Your Seeker almost died," she snapped at him, crossing the floor to stand directly in front of him. "And you're in here, _drowning your sorrows_. Merlin, it's just a game, Wood!"

"Wh-" Oliver's mouth started to form the beginnings of an angry response to her presence in the showers, but she cut him off.

"Oh, grow up!" she sneered. "You lost a schoolyard game of Quidditch, cry me a river. But I don't care about that."

"That's because your House won!" Oliver's retort sounded sulky beneath the anger (which was probably just an automatic reaction to having his privacy thoroughly invaded anyway).

"Are you serious?"

The incredulity coating that statement threw Oliver off balance and his anger petered out in the face of the tour de force the petite blonde Slytherin in front of him presented.

"You think I'd bother to come in here after Slytherin won a stupid Quidditch match to gloat over _how_ _you_ _treat_ _your own players?_" she hissed disbelievingly. "Urgh! Are you really that thick?"

She latched onto the nearest object (a shoe, as it happened) and launched it at his naked body. Irritatingly, the missile hit him in the arm due to the natural reaction for humans to protect their heads.

Her verbal attack recommenced with barely a pause: "I heard what you told him, Wood. You said 'catch the snitch or die trying'. What kind of thing is that to say? He's thirteen," she exclaimed. "Actually, no – he's still twelve, 'cause Potter's born in July. You can't put that kind of pressure on a kid like him.

"He's a fighter, sure, but he needs praise. I've seen him in classes. The moment you start to harp on him he goes into defensive mode. Lupin's got it all figured out. Potter's never been much of wiz with his wand, but he's suddenly turned into Mr Defence Against the Dark Arts because Lupin's worked out how to play his game. And now you need to work it out too.

"He looks up to you, Wood. Anyone with one working eye can see that, but because of that he'll do exactly what you want without thinking about himself. It's bloody all or nothing with Potter – damn Gryffindor qualities! You dive right in without thinking about consequences."

Daphne sighed.

"He already follows you about like a baby Crup - all you have to do is believe in him and let him know it."

She took the opportunity to glare at him while sucking in much needed breath.

Wood, despite being several years older and much, much larger, wisely chose to remain quiet. The water continued to pour down over him and Daphne let out a frustrated huff, marching forward and reaching out to turn the taps off. He flinched as her hand came up.

"Oh, for goodness sake," she griped. "I'm not going to hit you. That's so plebeian."

The fight had gone right out of the Gryffindor after Daphne's impassioned speech, promptly following the trail his dignity had left earlier in the conversation. Her words cut straight through his self-pity, and Daphne maintained her position two inches away from him, uncaring as to his nakedness, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Come on," she demanded. "You're going up to the Hospital Wing, now, apologising to your Seeker, and praising him for a game well played, even if he didn't get the bloody snitch."

Oliver flushed.

"Can you, erm, turn around maybe, or close-"

"It's nothing I haven't seen before," she said snarkily, her tone leaving no room for argument. She stepped away from him, bright eyes fixed on his brown ones.

Oliver obeyed meekly and changed very self-consciously in front of her. She marched him out and up to the castle, stalked behind him until they reached the Hospital Wing (occasionally disappearing in the shadows when other students passed them) and grabbed his arm to stop him just before he went through the double doors that opened into the Infirmary.

"Now, here's what you're going to do," she informed him sharply. "You're going in there, asking him how he is, telling him you're proud of him in spite of the loss, and then you're going to figure out a way to emulate Lupin and get the best out of the poor kid without having to ask him to die in the process. Okay?"

Oliver nodded. Daphne looked at him severely, gave his whole body a swift once over and then said: "Good boy."

Turning on the spot, she swanned down the hall, calling over her shoulder to the astounded Gryffindor: "And nice grooves. It's unfortunate I didn't have time to appreciate them earlier."

Oliver gawked, a feeling of distinct foolishness descending upon him as he realised that he'd just been very effectively bullied by a nameless thirteen year old Slytherin girl – _in the showers_ – over how he treated his team members.

Then he recalled something else she'd said – 'nothing I haven't seen before' – and Oliver concluded that this thirteen year old girl was significantly different to any of the ones with which he'd dealt before.

He shook his head to clear it and pushed open the doors.

**End.**

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	5. ChoPansy

**Disclaimer: I have no affiliation with JKR or WB, and this gains me nothing but satisfaction and maybe a few kind words from strangers.**

"**Spinning Between Constellations & Dreams"**  
- In and out of the crowd like a glance -  
_(So She Dances, Josh Groban)_**  
V  
Cho Chang/Pansy Parkinson  
**-:-

When Cho heard the abandoned classroom's door open she glanced emptily at the intruder, her eyes stained red and her cheeks wet from tears. Her body felt weaker than a newborn, and she didn't have the strength to remove the new arrival, instead letting her head fall back against the wall, avoiding eye contact.

"I'm not in the mood, Parkinson," she croaked, her voice hoarse from exhaustion and the bout of screaming she'd concluded almost an hour ago, before anger had been consumed by the agony of loss. "I can't… I can't listen to your slander. Not today. Not now."

A fresh wave of tears fell, but her exhausted body did not shake, she did not utter a sound as they cascaded down her face in silent grief.

Parkinson said nothing, closing the door behind her with great care as she stepped further into the room, moving with deliberate caution towards the distraught Ravenclaw and sliding down the wall to sit beside her, barely an inch left between them. In passing, they could have been sisters – both dark haired, dark eyed, and slim, with an Asiatic air. Pansy smoothed down her sharp edged bob, then contented herself fiddling with the silver charm bracelet on her wrist.

"He was a good wizard," she offered tentatively into the ravenous quiet of the room, her voice a little hoarse. "He helped me once, back when I was a first year." Her bracelet tinkled musically. "I was late to class when the stairs changed and I couldn't figure out how to get back to the right floor. I was seconds from bursting into tears when this smiling, happy fourth year suddenly appeared," Pansy said thickly. "He was so _nice_ to me. No doubt I called him something horrid, heaven knows the rest of Slytherin House was harping on about Hufflepuffs being unworthy of our time."

She gave a strangled laugh, barely withholding a sob.

"He was good man," she reaffirmed, patting down the fabric over her knees distractedly, her bracelet jangling. "He should've had a long life and a smile for you every day."

Hesitantly, the older girl reached out with a trembling hand and grasped her fingers comfortingly, stilling their jittery movements.

"I know." It came out as the veriest whisper. "I _know_."

If Cho had looked up, she would have seen red rimmed eyes, tired from the tears they' shed in the safety and silence of the curtained bed. Instead, she let her head fall sideways onto Pansy's shoulder, and clutched the slender hand like a lifeline as the echo of her broken words hovered over them, a glimpse of a future now irreversibly shattered.

The Slytherin and Ravenclaw sat together in silence, on the floor of an abandoned classroom, and cried.

**End.**

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	6. HannahDraco

**Disclaimer: It is not mine. You know that by now. Nothing gained but satisfaction, yada yada.**

"**Spinning Between Constellations & Dreams"**  
- In and out of the crowd like a glance -  
_(So She Dances, Josh Groban)_**  
VI  
Hannah Abbott/Draco Malfoy  
**-:-

The clouds to the east are black and threatening as the last of the blue sky retreats for the winter, taking with it the birds and their songs, and somewhere in the school a boy is crying.

The flaming torches restrained in their sconces lick at the shadows, illuminating lonely halls, and on the second floor whispers of distress crawl along the corridor like dying men.

* * *

Hogwarts is silent, a rare occurrence in an educational institution. The only interruption comes from the soft tap of a girl's shoes as she makes her way up one of the many staircases that curl from dungeon to tower. Blonde hair cut to a bob shines in the light of the flames, and when she pauses at the second floor, attention caught by a soft whimper, the colours ignited in her hair by the firelight are a beautiful masterpiece.

She is the very definition of homely; a girl next door, soft and cautious, warm and kind, and Hufflepuff to the bone – she wears her House on her sleeve, and her heart is freely given to any who ask for it. She loves, because love has no limit.

The weak cries pique her curiosity and her path diverges from the intended route (Professor Binns' office, with a question on their latest assignment, if you must know) and she steps onto the stone hallway of the second floor.

She follows the sounds to Myrtle's bathroom, but for once it's not the teenaged ghost interrupting the quiet of the castle. Slipping inside and letting the heavy door click shut behind her, she is greeted by a sight far stranger than what she has been anticipating: Draco Malfoy is half-collapsed over the sink, his pallour even more faded than usual, and he's retching something awful.

Hannah Abbott watches as her head says _leaveleaveleave_, while her heart says stay. In the end, she listens to her heart, because there's nothing harder than going against your own character. Cautiously, like a cat approaches a stranger, she makes her way across the tiles, but though he missed her entrance, Malfoy hasn't failed to note her presence. He spins, one hand scrabbling for his wand, his face defiant as his lips turn up into a scowl.

"What do you want?" he spits at her, glaring down the length of his extended arm. Normally she'd be upset at such coarse treatment, but there are tear stains down his cheeks and he really does look dreadful so she ignores his angry question and takes another step forward. His aggression doubles. "Come to see the mighty fall, have you? Going to run back to all the other damn bumblebees and tell them that you saw Draco bloody Malfoy howling in the girls' bathroom? I bet you'd all love that."

Hannah remains silent.

"Answer me, Abbott!" Malfoy demands, hysteria flowing through his bloodstream.

"I want to help you," she offers quietly, doing her best to sound soothing and unthreatening.

"I don't need help."

He's almost growling, and if he was a dog, she's sure that he'd be raising his hackles and baring his teeth by now. She wants to fling something back at him that might make him listen ('_shut the fuck up, you idiot, you're going to kill yourself acting like this'_), but she's never been one for harsh words – they're the domain of people like Susan and Daphne Greengrass.

"I don't need help," Malfoy repeats, sneering weakly, but he sounds unsure. He's trying to convince himself, but it doesn't seem to be working because his wand arm is shaking like a leaf. There is a moment where everything seems to stop; sound vanishes, and the world fades into the background. And then, he sags, falling to his knees in a graceful descent, his wand clattering to the floor.

Hannah is beside him in an instant, wrapping her arms about his limp frame and listening sympathetically to his pitiable sobs and harsh gasping breaths as fear and desperation wrack his sixteen year old body.

Patiently, and with a kindness only his mother has ever shown him, Hannah comforts the Slytherin, whispering soothing sounds into his ear as she cradles him against her. A nagging feeling forces its way into her mind, and she supposes that things are going to get a lot worse than a boy crying in a bathroom, but she pushes the thought away and lets him clutch her arms like she's his salvation.

* * *

Somewhere in the school a boy is crying.

But now he holds a lifeline.

* * *

**End.**

**Please, Read and Review Responsibly. **

**And: if you spot an accidental tense change (likely, unfortunately), let me know and I'll fix it up. Also, you can make your own assumptions as to whether Draco Obliviated Hannah afterwards, or if they just never spoke of it again, or anything you like, really. I just thought it would take away from the flow if I tacked something on the end there…**


	7. KevinMillicent

**Disclaimer: It is not mine. You know that by now. Nothing gained but satisfaction, yada yada.**

"**Spinning Between Constellations & Dreams"**  
- In and out of the crowd like a glance -  
_(So She Dances, Josh Groban)_**  
VII  
Kevin Entwhistle/Millicent Bulstrode  
**-:-

"Pass the secateurs would you, Bulstrode?" a congenial voice requested from somewhere to Milly's left. She pushed the clipping tool along the wooden bench without looking up from her work.

"Ta."

Milly wasn't one for prejudice so she hummed something noncommittal in acknowledgement as the Ravenclaw went about pruning the plant before him. It was a large, vine-like plant with deep purple leaves edged with sharp little hooks. It was swaying gently and purring softly as the stems brushed against one another like the legs of a cricket. A vine reached out and curled around his hands.

"Tcht," Kevin Entwhistle scolded, and the plant obediently retreated. He finished pruning it in good time, making sure to place the secateurs out of reach of the curious vines, and stood back to admire his work.

"You know, these plants are really quite strange," he said aloud. "It's almost as if they've decided to become an animal."

Milly raised her brow at him, but the boy ignored her scepticism.

"Honestly, it purrs, it rubs itself against you, it's possessive," he listed things off on his fingers. "It's a bloody cat!"

"Fine qualities, in my opinion," Millicent said, adding her two knuts worth into Entwhistle's monologue.

"Well, you would, wouldn't you," he told her, as if he'd had no doubt. "You're a cat person. I've seen you with Manu and Leech. Heck, even _Granger's_ cat likes you."

"Crookshanks is part kneazle," Millicent reminded him, finishing her sentence with a flourish and sitting back to scan her work. "He's a good judge of character and _very_ intelligent."

"Modest."

Milly poked her tongue out childishly in response. She was about to add something else when a movement near the door caught her eye. She sighed in irritation. Under her breath she murmured to the Entwhistle: "Malfoy and the others are back."

His brown eyes flicked towards the Slytherin students and the few straggling Gryffindors who were making their way back inside from their session of herb gathering. Weasley looked livid – seemed to be a normal day at Hogwarts, really.

"It's these stupid unwritten rules that make me want to graduate early," Entwhistle grumbled _sotto voce_. "Merlin, help us! A Slytherin and a Ravenclaw being friendly!" he mocked, and Milly silently agreed with his grievance. It was ridiculous, really, how segregated the school became after the Sorting. Childhood friendships could be erased in a matter of days!

As the rag-tag group of students moved closer to them, the Ravenclaw and Slytherin fell back into silence, albeit one more companionable than elsewhere in the room, and the social dynamics of Hogwarts settled back into place.

**End.**

**Please, Read and Review Responsibly.**


	8. BlaiseTeddy

**Finally, I can upload again! Thank you, site support people.**

**Disclaimer: Nothing gained but satisfaction.**

"**Spinning Between Constellations & Dreams"**  
- In and out of the crowd like a glance -  
_(So She Dances, Josh Groban)_**  
VIII  
Blaise Zabini/Teddy Lupin  
**-:-

He'd always appreciated a good education.

Education is valuable. Blaise is certain that he'd have been dead and buried long ago if not for his coaching in Potions.

But even in the face of necessity he'd enjoyed learning, so it was hardly a surprise when the former Slytherin ended up as the youngest governor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in four hundred years, at the tender age of twenty six.

* * *

It's March, and Blaise is visiting Hogwarts on governor business stylishly decked out in black velvet robes with silver trim. His pointy-toed shoes clack against the stones and his cane – homage to Lucius Malfoy, whom Blaise always admired as a specimen of elite wizardhood – is held deftly in his right hand, two rings glinting in the morning light as his fingers curl around the sculpted, silver eagle head.

His dark hair, long, in the style of the old Wizarding families, is tied at the nape of his neck with a black ribbon, and his almond shaped brown eyes are rimmed with kohl, a left-over from his life with his infamous mother, making him look intensely exotic.

Turning the corner, Blaise is almost wiped out by a student who comes tearing around it.

Ordinarily, he would scold indifferently and continue on his way, but this time his trouble maker is something of an intrigue, looking up at him from the floor where he's sitting, crumpled.

He has electric blue hair, with two red racing stripes down the middle, and very familiar eyes. His school robes, bearing the Hufflepuff insignia, are skewed, and more than a little baggy, but he's chipper and cheeky-looking and Blaise has to remember himself before he's caught admiring the fine bone work of this seventh year's face.

"Sorry, sir," he says, getting to his feet. "Hello, sir."

"So you should be," Blaise tells him, ignoring the greeting. "What's your name?"

The Hufflepuff looks startled, but answers promptly.

"Lupin," he says worriedly, as if he's expecting a reprimand.

Ah, the familiar eyes begin to make sense. Teddy Lupin, the son of Blaise's former Defence professor, Remus Lupin, and Harry Potter's godson. He's Black by his mother's blood, though it's no doubt heavily diluted by now, which means he's related to Draco, which explains the familiar grey orbs staring brightly back at him, waiting to see if there's a detention to be had for reckless conduct.

When standing, Lupin's almost the same height as Blaise, but he's broader in the shoulders and without the slender grace of the older Italian. Of course, Blaise remembers as Lupin's hair becomes uniform in colour, the boy hasn't any real restrictions in his appearance; he's a metamorphmagus, after all.

He catches Lupin staring at his lips, and smiles predatorily. "Lupin. Yes, of course."

He walks on, adding, "If you've nothing better to do, it would please me if you'd accompany me to the Headmaster's Office."

"Yessir," Lupin agrees quickly, eyes lighting up with anticipation as he scrambles to catch up.

They walk in silence as small groups of students wander past, Blaise in his affluent robes, and Teddy in his patchy school gear, and once or twice Blaise notices a wistful look in the eyes of some of the older girls as they glance first at their schoolmate and then the attractive, young governor. He knows exactly what is going through their minds, because he's considered it himself three times since meeting the handsome lad. It's something to do with that turquoise hair, he thinks privately.

When they're alone again, Blaise slows to a halt. Teddy obediently copies him.

"Tell me, Mr Lupin," Blaise purrs, both hands resting on his cane, "do you have many _admirers_?"

He takes delight in the nervous bounce of Teddy's Adam's apple.

"A few, sir."

"All young ladies?"

"Um, er… Some," Teddy blusters, a hint of a blush rising on his cheeks. "Not all of them."

Blaise smiles.

"Anyone in particular?"

"Excuse me, sir, but I don't see how that's any of your busi-" Teddy begins to reply petulantly, but a gaggle of girls wander past and Teddy's attention is caught by a stunning girl with a pale pink sheen to her blonde hair. Blaise recognises her as Bill Weasley's eldest –a part Veela – and his lips curl into a smirk.

"Ah," he says knowingly, and watches the image of perfection glide by them.

She glances over her shoulder at the two men coquettishly before disappearing around the corner, but whether the look is for him, or Teddy, or both, Blaise cannot tell. She's a vision and his imagination is already flowing.

After assuring that they are alone once more, Blaise raises a hand to grasp Teddy's chin. The boy's breathing staggers just slightly and Blaise can read the anticipation in his eyes, but he makes no further action. Instead, he says in his rich velvet tones, "When you are both out of school, perhaps."

He sees the realisation of the statement dawn in Teddy's eyes followed by immediate disappointment and abandons the boy, vanishing up the staircase to the Headmaster's Office. Finally alone, Blaise allows himself a smile, smug satisfaction washing over him.

It is so very easy to woo the young, Blaise knows. Women or men, he need barely lift a finger; they fall at his feet with a word and he walks in adoration.

**End.**

**Blaise is such a predator. He's gorgeous, he knows it, and he's quite fond of sharing. What a smoothie. I've always thought him to be a bit academic as well, so it's a win-win situation, really.**

**Please, Read & Review Responsibly.**


	9. GinevraTheodore

**Disclaimer: It is not mine. You know that by now. Nothing gained but satisfaction, yada yada.**

"**Spinning Between Constellations & Dreams"**  
- In and out of the crowd like a glance -  
_(So She Dances, Josh Groban)_**  
IX  
Ginevra Weasley/Theodore Nott  
**-:-

Ginny crept quietly up to the portrait guarding the entrance to the kitchens and tickled the pear, slipping inside with nary a noise and only breathing out when she heard it click shut behind her. Umbridge and her cretins were everywhere these days; one couldn't be too careful.

She saw Dobby scuttling about and was about to call him over when another voice cut piercingly through the midnight silence: "Who's there?"

It was a boy, standing by one of the wobbly wooden tables, wand clasped loosely in his hand, waiting until needed. He was wearing a pair of midnight blue pyjama pants slung low on his hips and a ratty grey shirt with a whole near the neck.

"Hey, relax!" she hissed, slipping into the better lighting. For once she was thankful of the baggy hand-me-down shirt that had once belonged to Bill. It almost reached her knees. "Sneaking about in the kitchens is about _not_ getting caught, idiot, keep it down!"

He could see her properly now, and she wouldn't be surprised if he'd also realised who she was, courtesy of her Weasley-red hair and overabundance of freckles, but he didn't say anything, merely glancing at her bed-hair and shirt-dress before he sat back down, placing his wand within easy reach and picking up the book he'd been reading, continuing from where he'd left off.

In the meantime, she'd come to Dobby's attention.

"Miss Wheezy!" he cried joyfully, making sure to keep his voice down. "What can Dobby be doing for you? Biscuits? Cake? A slice of strawberry tart?"

"Hi, Dobby," Ginny whispered. "I'd love a piece of strawberry tart, if you donn't mind."

"Of course, right away, Miss Wheezy," Dobby nodded in agreement. "You can sit with the young master over there."

She would have argued, but one messy table was better than two, so she wandered over to other student. Strangely, she didn't recognise him, though he had to have been in either Ron's year or the one above.

"You don't mind if I sit here, do you?" she asked.

"Not at all," he answered, not looking up from his reading.

Sitting with her legs crossed on the seat of the chair, Ginny discreetly observed the boy while she waited for Dobby to prepare her midnight snack.

He was fairly plain at first glance, with brown hair that stuck up at awkward angles at the back hanging just a little too long over the eyes. His unassuming figure was lightly muscled to make him broader than Harry, but not quite as wide in the shoulder as Ron, who, after years of shovelling food into his stomach, had finally started to fill out like Bill and Charlie. She ran her gaze over his arms and then stared happily as he stretched, pulling the grey shirt up to reveal a rather nice set of abs.

"It's six sickles for a show, you know," the boy said, amused, and Ginny blushed beetroot red. Thankfully, the dim light hid most of it in shadow. She went to defend herself, but he continued before she could come up with a response: "And don't try and deny it – you were definitely looking."

"Well, excuse a girl for enjoying the view," she said on impulse and then bit her tongue in shock.

The boy laughed. "Firecracker," he said almost fondly. "Well, seeing as we're already communicating, what are you doing up in the middle of the night?"

"Couldn't sleep; felt like dessert," she told him by way of explanation, ignoring the fact that she still had no idea who he was. Midnight meetings didn't work the same way as daytime ones, everyone was the same in the dark.

He nodded in understanding as Dobby appeared by the table, two places carrying a slice of strawberry tart in hand.

"Here you are, Miss Wheezy," the house-elf beamed, "and one for the young master, too."

He disappeared back into the hushed bustle of the kitchen and Ginny took a bite.

"Right on the spot, Dobby," she murmured under her breath in delight. "Merlin, try some," she ordered her companion. "It's like heaven on a fork."

Somewhat to her surprise he complied.

"That is actually damn good," he agreed, helping himself to the rest of the dessert. "I should've chosen it before. It's better than hot chocolate and shortbread."

"Not scones, though," Ginny pointed out, "with jam and cream-" she let out a low, drawn out _yuuuuum_ just at the thought- "nothing beats scones."

The boy chewed and swallowed his last piece of tart, a pensive look on his face, before he suddenly pointed his fork at her. "Macarons," he put forward with an air of finality, and Ginny's brows knitted together, her mouth making an impressed 'o'; he was good.

"I wonder if Dobby will give us a tasting plate?" she inquired thoughtfully. The boy shrugged, his lips hinting at a smile.

"We can but ask."

"Dobby!" she called and the little elf appeared near her elbow. "Would you be able to make us a collection of desserts? Macarons – tartines – cakes; things like that?" she asked him politely.

Dobby nodded in House-Elf bliss. "Of course, Miss Wheezy," he affirmed with pleased, wide eyes. "Is this plate to be for sharing with the young master?"

"It is," the boy answered, "thank you."

They watched as the eager House Elf scurried off to do their bidding.

The alacrity of the kitchen elves rings true, and in five minutes, there is a delectable platter of desserts placed before the two students; colours of all kinds, cakes, ice-creams, fruits, gelatinous substances are presented to them on the plate – all looking incredible – and Ginny shares a bright, cheeky smile with her midnight snack partner in crime.

"Bon appétit," he tells her jokingly and offers her one of the pink and white speckled macarons.

The night passed even more quickly after that, the pair tasting and swapping and exclaiming over the goodness of the fancy desserts, Ginny privately thinking that she hasn't had such a carefree, fun time in a long while.

"So, mystery boy, what's your name?" she asks casually as they demolish a hefty piece of tiramisu. He looks up at her through long, dark lashes, and says 'Theo' and she knows that's all she'll be getting from him this night. She smiles and nods in acknowledgement, and they spend the rest of the tasting in companionable silence.

And at three am, when she leaves, Theodore Nott wonders if the night would have gone quite so well had she known he was a Slytherin. He doubts it, but the tiniest sliver of hope washes in on the tide of subjunctive history as he imagines what could have been between a Slytherin prince and a Gryffindor princess over the sweetness of midnight desserts.

**End.**

**Well, this was a long time coming. But I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. If I was at Hogwarts I think I'd live in those kitchens. YUMMEH YUMMEH. And I'm craving macarons from Zumbo. Genius patîssier that he is. **


	10. LilyLunaTerry

**This one is less of a moment thing and more of a consistent-every-day-kind-of-relationship-where student-drives-teacher-crazy-with-questions-not-unlike-a-toddler-and-their-parent.  
Look up 'Tiresias' to fully understand Lily-Luna's comment.**

**Disclaimer: It is not mine. You know that by now. Nothing gained but satisfaction, yada yada.**

* * *

"**Spinning Between Constellations & Dreams"**  
- In and out of the crowd like a glance -  
_(So She Dances, Josh Groban)_**  
X  
Lily-Luna Potter/Terry Boot  
**-:-

"Sir, sir!" Lily-Luna called, waving her hand in the air to get her Ancient Runes Professor's attention. "Please, sir, I have a question."

Professor Boot turned away from the chalk illustrations on the blackboard with a sigh.

"Yes, Miss Potter?" he asked wearily.

She tried to look disapprovingly of his lacklustre response, but her eyes were twinkling with mischief. "Is your first name really _Tiresias_?"

The Professor looked shrewdly at her, trying to discern why she would ask him such a personal and irrelevant question when her focus was meant to be on the translation of the passage on page two-hundred and forty-eight of the textbook.

"Yes, Miss Potter, it is, though you will refrain from using that moniker with me in my hearing or you'll find yourself cleaning bedpans," he answered cautiously.

She nodded once, an angelic smile on her face. After a moment's thoughtful pause, she raised her hand again and added, "Does that mean you were a woman for seven years?"

The class tittered, snickering behind their books and hands at her boldness. For a Slytherin, she sure had bucketfuls of the Gryffindor trait.

"No, Miss Potter," Professor Boot denied. "It definitely does not." He shot an irritated glare at the youngest Potter child.

"Are you sure?" Lily-Luna queried, resting her chin on one hand while the other twisted her flame-coloured locks around her fingers. "Mum says she remembers you being very close to one of her ex-boyfriends – Michael Corner. And you seem very defensive." She smiled sweetly up at him.

"I'm quite sure," Boot replied drily. "Another thing I'm quite sure of, Miss Potter, is your presence in this classroom at seven o'clock tonight for a detention."

"Oh, sir! Why?" she cried out plaintively, leaning forward in her chair.

He stalked up the isle to her desk and leaned down in front her, bracing his hands on the wooden table. "Would you like a list?"

She smirked and leaned back, eyes twinkling. He raised a brow and turned to take his place at the front once more when she called out, "Sir, sir! Can you tell us how your hair ended up like that?"

He sighed, and resolved to studiously ignore her for the remainder of the lesson.

* * *

**End.**

**Read and Review like good little ficcy readers, please.**


	11. SeamusErnie

**Another! It's been a little while, but I like this one. I can see Seamus doing this very easily.**

* * *

"**Spinning Between Constellations & Dreams"**  
- In and out of the crowd like a glance -  
_(So She Dances, Josh Groban)_**  
XI  
Seamus Finnigan/Ernie Macmillan  
**-:-

"Could you be any more stereotypical?" Ernie Macmillan said as he took in the Gryffindor standing before him.

"In what sense," Seamus asked through an enormous grin, "the bold Gryffindor or the proud Irishman?

"Either; _both_," Ernie exclaimed.

Seamus was wearing a lairy green shirt with the words 'Kiss Me I'm Irish' emblazoned in white across the chest, a pair of shiny green tights – his dignity barely protected by the shimmering tutu at his waist – and a pair of bizarre looking clogs that had green and orange pom-poms on the toes. His face was split into three sections, green, white and orange, and he had a look of complete joy on his face which was probably only matched by the third year Hufflepuff girls Ernie had until moments ago been tutoring in Transfiguration.

"Well, me darlin's, I'd best be off," Seamus sighed, sending the three girls a winning smile that made them giggle. Ernie rolled his eyes. "And as for you, Macmillan, the Room's going to be decked out tonight for a St Paddy's day spectacular. Seven o'clock, bring all the badgers you like."

He smiled, dropped a smart salute and disappeared out of the classroom. Almost immediately, Ernie heard the startled Scottish brogue of the Professor McGonagall cry out: "What on earth are you wearing, Mister Finnigan? Oh, my word – put on some pants, please – this is a school, not a pub!"

This set the girls off once again and Ernie couldn't quite manage to hide his own smile as the clumping sound of Seamus' clogs reverberated through the corridors even as his whooping laughter echoed down the hall.

* * *

**End.**

**Please, read and review responsibly.**


	12. PercyLavender

**Wow, it's been a while. Here you go.**

* * *

"**Spinning Between Constellations & Dreams"**  
- In and out of the crowd like a glance -  
_(So She Dances, Josh Groban)_**  
XII  
Percy Weasley/Lavender Brown  
**-:-

* * *

Percy could hear somebody crying.

It was nearly curfew, almost time for the students to retire for the night, so the prefect felt it only proper to investigate (despite the warning bells that went off in the back of all men's heads when they caught wind of crying girls) and stepped cautiously down the dormitory stairs to the Common Room.

At first look it appeared empty, but with a shrewd gaze Percy spotted a tiny figure in the corner closest the fireplace. From the size he gathered it to be a first year.

_Probably homesick_, he guessed.

"It's almost curfew," he reminded quietly but firmly as he walked towards the young girl. She looked up, startled, and wiped her eyes.

"Oh – I- I was just-" she stumbled over her words, and Percy felt a burst of sorrow for her – he had a niggling feeling that it was something more than homesickness troubling the child.

"There're still a few minutes," he offered gently, if a little awkwardly, and tried to pretend the girl was his little sister, Ginny. "If you want to talk, I'll listen. I'm a prefect, after all, maybe I can help."

She wiped her face on her sleeve and bit her lip as Percy squatted next to the chair, using the arm for balance.

"What's the problem?" he prompted.

"It's nothing, really," she told him. "It was just some of the other students… I don't know who they are..."

"Nevertheless, Miss…" he trailed off questioningly.

"Oh, Brown. Lavender," she explained, smiling a little.

"Percy Weasley, Gryffindor prefect." He shook her hand formally; she almost giggled, which he took for a good sign. "Now, what did they say or do that made you so upset?"

She frowned. "I don't suppose they meant to be really mean, but they were laughing at me because my favourite colour is purple and my name is, well, _Lavender;_ but one of them said I must be stupid because I have really blonde hair and everyone knows that blonde witches are-" She cut herself off, blushing profusely.

_Ah_, Percy thought. He knew the saying. Sharing a dorm at Hogwarts invariably opened one's eyes and ears to things otherwise left uncovered. It wasn't a nice thing to say to a poor little first year. Truth be told, it wasn't a particularly nice thing to say period, but there would always be those in the world who find cruelty easier than civility.

"Now, that's not true," he cajoled instead. "I know some very intelligent, kind blonde witches, and purple is a perfectly good candidate for a favourite colour." He pushed his glasses higher on his nose with his index finger. "For now, though, I think it'd be best if you went to bed, had a good sleep, and then tomorrow we can sort this out, if you like. Have you met your dorm-mates?"

"Not yet."

"Well, I'm sure all of those things will make you feel better," Percy stated confidently. "Now, up to bed and introduce yourself to the others. I think one of them is called Parvati - she might like purple, too."

Lavender beamed, hugged him quickly around the middle, and ran up the stairs. Once she was gone, Percy heaved an enormous sigh.

"Well done," a voice said quietly.

He spun around to find Tilly, his female counterpart, watching him from near the portrait hole. She must have been on patrol.

"You dealt with that better than I thought you would," she told him frankly.

"Having siblings occasionally has its merits," he replied, his cheeks turning pink under her scrutiny. "But I was just doing my job."

* * *

**End.**

**Please, read and review responsibly.**


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